


The Mistress of Oakwater

by NickelModelTales



Series: The Oakwaters [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Class Differences, Dark, Dubious Morality, F/M, Faustian Bargain, Hypnotism, Lawyers, Master/Slave, New York City, Porn With Plot, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: A beautiful, young, ambitious lawyer discovers that she is very susceptible to hypnotism.  When an insanely wealthy and corrupt client demands the immoral from her, can she use hypnosis to give herself the ruthless edge she’ll need?
Series: The Oakwaters [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663933
Kudos: 21





	1. All People Are Dicks

**_Atlantic City, November 2014_ **

“ _And now, all my volunteers on stage, you will forget everything, and then relax deeper and deeper…!_ ” the blonde hypnotist chick says into her mike.

My eyes are closed. I sigh to myself, feeling my body turn into even more of a warm noodle. Somehow, I’m sitting comfortably in this folding chair, my every muscle relaxed into pudding. Yet I don’t fall onto the stage. I just want to sit here… and… do nothing…

This feeling is awesome. I’m so relaxed, and I couldn’t give a shit about anything. _Giiiiiirl_ , I think to myself, _I’m soooooooo chill…_

I don’t think I’m hypnotized, though. Sure, I have this vague, dreamlike memory of competing in a twerking contest… of believing I was a pro NFL cheerleader… of seeing everyone in the audience completely naked… At one point in the evening, the hypnotist asked this chubby fellow in the audience to come up on the stage. I thought this schlub was pretty dorky-looking. But then, the hypnotist snapped her fingers, and then I suddenly realized that the guy was **_insanely hot!_** I was drooling over him… until the hypnotist snapped her fingers again.

But I’m totally not hypnotized. Uh-uh. No way.

“ _And now, my volunteers on stage,_ ” the hypnotist says, her velvet tone both soothing and seductive, “ _its time for my favorite part of the show: Advice for America’s Youth._ ”

The audience giggles.

“ _Yes, in a moment, some of you will feel me touch you on your shoulder. The instant I touch you, you will open your eyes and come out of hypnosis. I will ask you a question, and you will respond with…_ ” - and here, the hypnotist chick stresses every word – “ _… **100% absolute honesty**. You have no shame or hesitations when you respond._”

More giggles and twitters from the audience.

 _Sure, whatever…_ I absently think. Idly, I wonder if my dress and makeup still look up for going dancing later tonight.

The hypnotist strides across the stage, and I hear her heels click as she passes me. “ _You, sir,_ ” she declares, “ _awaken, and tell me: What advice do you have for America’s youth?_ ”

I hear the voice of the big, moustached dude two seats away from me. In a flat voice, he says, “Love is all you need.”

“Awww…” half the women in the audience murmur.

“ _Thank you, sir._ **Sleep!** ” the hypnotist comments. “ _And you, ma’am?_ ”

The gorgeous African American lady sitting next to me says, “A thick one is better than a long one.”

At this, the spectators erupt into roars of hearty laughter.

“ _Amen, sister, amen,_ ” the hypnotist replies. “ ** _Sleep!_** _…a woman after my own heart, ladies and gentlemen. I hope the friends and relatives of my volunteers are filming this, because we have some great Facebook moments happening up here. Now, let’s see… Ah!_ ”

I suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder. Without thinking, I open my eyes and sit straight up.

The entire audience is eagerly staring up at me. The blonde hypnotist chick, in her slinky red cocktail dress and mike in her hand, is leaning over me. She’s **_gorgeous_**. Almost as hot as I am. The spotlight is in my eyes.

“ _Hi, what’s you name again?_ ” Gorgeous Hypnotist asks me.

I respond: “Quinn.”

“ _And what advice or truism do you have to say to America’s Youth, Quinn?_ ” hypnotist chick asks me.

I feel so tranquilized.

Mindlessly, I respond: “All people are dicks.”

The audience burst into more harsh laughter. I wonder what’s so funny.

“ _A misanthrope, eh?_ ” the hypnotist winks. “ _Quinn, honey, **sleep**_.”

My eyes drop closed all on their own. I feel myself flop forward in my chair.

“ _Let’s have a little fun, shall we?_ ” the hypnotist says brightly. I feel her hand on my shoulder, once more. “ _Quinn, for the rest of tonight, anytime your boyfriend asks you, ‘How was getting hypnotized?’, you will automatically respond by shouting out, ‘I LOVE DICKS!’ This impulse will be immediate and irresistible and you will do it before you can stop yourself. Nod once if you understand._ ”

I understand. I feel my head bob.

The audience laughs, and the hypnotist joins them. “ _Now, a shout-out to the boyfriend of this young lady… Use this power only for good, got it?_ ” She chuckles, then moves on to the next volunteer.

Whatever. I’m not hypnotized.

*** *** ***

Its now an hour later, and John and I are leaving the theatre. With annoyance, I note that everyone in the audience is watching me closely. Several are actually filming me on their smartphones. What the fuck?

“That was awesome,” John declares, his shit-eating grin growing wider.

“Yeah, sure, whatevs,” I crack. “You just remember our deal. I don’t think I was hypnotized.”

 ** _Of course_** I wasn’t hypnotized. John dared me to go up on stage, in exchange for my favorite… uh, extracurricular bedroom activity… and I fully intend to collect later tonight. But honestly: I went up on stage, and **_nothing happened_**. Supposedly there was a big show, but I remember nothing of it. I wasn’t hypnotized.

“Let’s get a cab,” I tell John, poking through my purse. Where are my cigarettes?

“Com’on,” a heavyset guy says to my finance. “Do it to her.”

“Yeah!” several more people chime in.

Do **_what_** to me?

Looking all innocent, John mugs, then says, “So… how was getting hypnotized?”

My mind goes blank, and I stand straight up. “ ** _I LOVE DICKS!_** ” I bellow at the top of my lungs.

Everybody – John included – bust a gut laughing.

Oh shit! **_What_** did I just say? Mortified, I clap a hand over my mouth.

“That was awesome,” a brunette girl chortles, filming me on her phone.

“Her name is Quinn, Quinn McKinnon,” John informs the crowd. “She’s a lawyer.”

“John!” I’m annoyed.

“Yeah, how was it getting hypnotized?”

“ ** _I LOVE DICKS!_** ” I cry out.

The crowd eats it up.

*** *** ***

John and I leave the casino and head for Boogie Nights, a nightclub right on the water. Its 11 PM-ish, and I want a few drinks in me before we head back to John’s suite.

The club is dark and loud, and the drinks are crazy overpriced. But who cares? I’m on John’s dime. I down two Roman Cokes, then pull my future hubby onto the dance floor for some booty shaking. He’s not thrilled, and makes an excuse to sit down for the first song.

Ugh, what ** _ever_**. I’m on the town. I hook up with a few other girls, and we make a dance circle. Good times.

As I gyrate, I like the attention I’m getting from the other boys. Men are terrible at hiding their inner thoughts. They look me up and down, and then that sly, _Don’t-you-want-me_ smirk comes across their face. Half of them introduce themselves by opening with, “Hey baby…!” Lame.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s some nice hotties trying to get my phone number. Its flattering. But I look at the tennis shoes and unmanicured fingernails on these guys, and I see that they are busboys or accountants or construction managers. **_Losers._** They spend what money they have on clothes and cologne, but they couldn’t buy me a nice lobster or take me to the opera if I demanded it.

John, for all his immature faults, is a broker at Willow Crescent Associates. Last year, at age twenty-five, he pulled down $126,000, **_after_** taxes. That’s easily $40 K more than me, and I’m a year older. John’ll make partner by thirty-five, be a millionaire before he’s forty, and retire whenever he fucking pleases. John is a workhorse. John brings me the bling.

So I flirt, I tease, I allow one or two of those guys to kiss me, but that’s it. Stupid John’s too busy watching boxing on his phone to notice. When I get bored, we leave.

*** *** ***

Don’t get me wrong. John’s a good, solid guy. A little uncreative, a little insensitive, but a hard worker. He labored like a slave in college and grad school, and when I saw he was on target to become a wealth management expert, I had to snap him up. He’ll be earning big bucks in the not-too-distant future.

John and I actually knew one another from way back. When I was growing up on Long Island, he and I met at a high school party, a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend kind of thing. We were introduced by Douglass Alberta, who was two grades behind me.

Of course… John went into finance, but Doug went into politics. The last time I talked to Dad, the old man mentioned that Doug was elected **_District Attorney of Nassau County_**. Fuck me! He could be governor some day. Maybe I should have hitched my star to Doug’s wagon…?

*** *** ***

Its almost 3 AM when John and I trudge back into the suite. The room service guys left the champagne in the bottle-holder, but the ice is all melted now. Morons. What good is that?

John is clearly horny. He pats my butt with a playful hand.

“Remember our deal,” I admonish him as I unzip my dress.

“Oh,” John says, and his face falls. “Yeah, but-“

“John!” I snap, not in the mood for his games. “You promised. Don’t fucking welsh on me.”

I’ll be so pissed if John goes back on his word. He egged me to go to that hypnotist show, and then to volunteer to get on stage. In return, he has to go down on me. That was the deal. Getting eaten out is my favorite thing in the fucking world, and I didn’t just risk humiliating myself before Atlantic City and YouTube for him to slither out of his end of the bargain.

John hates giving oral. He **_hates_** it. I don’t understand the fuck why. Women are expected to suck off dudes like its no big thing. So why are guys so skeeved out about licking pussy? I’d think that the vagina is cleaner and better-tasting than the cock, so right off the bat, I say men are getting the better half of oral sex duties. Am I right, ladies?

Although he **_clearly_** wants to just go to sleep, John relents. I strip off my panties, then climb onto the bed. I stack some pillows, recline, then spread my legs. “ _Bon appetite, mon amie,_ ” I command.

John lowers himself before my hips. He looks like he’d rather chew glass than lick me.

“Do it,” I remind him.

He sighs. “So, how was it getting hypnotized?”

My thoughts vanish. “ ** _I LOVE DICKS!_** ” I immediately scream as loud as I can.

John chortles, but leans forward. I feel his lips on my lips.

As my body starts to respond to his stimulation, I relax and sigh. Okay, yeah, this was worth it. John may hate licking me, but, mmmmmmmmmmm… he’s good at it. Yeeeeeeeah… Oh, fuck…

Wait a second. I blink. Memories of the evening are popping into my mind.

Holy fucking shit!

**_I WAS hypnotized at the show!_ **

*** *** ***

**_One Week Later…_ **

**_Manhattan, 6 th Ave and 44th St._ **

I can’t help but glance at the clock, yet again. Goddamnit! This meeting’s only been going on for **_twenty-two minutes?_**

Fuck me…!

“Subsection Twelve…” Hester drones on, flipping the page in her ringbinder. Everyone at the table – myself included – flip with her. “Distribution of Intellectual Assets and Fiduciary Benefits Therein. Paragraph A. In the event that…”

Oh. My. God. Hester is a ranking partner here at Baker, Baker, Travis, Witt, and Locklin. Our firm isn’t the most prestigious or feared, but Hester must have won all of her lawsuits by boring the opposing council to death. The woman can take any topic – any topic – and make it as dry and dull as shit. I’m trapped here in a review meeting for an upcoming lawsuit about profits over a video game, and somehow she’s made this the Most Boring Meeting in the History of Time.

I groan inwardly, wondering if I can fake a call on my cell, if only so I can escape?

No, Goddamnit. Hester will remember, and punish me afterword. She will. Despite her drab appearance, she’s a real vindictive bitch. My only hope-

The conference door bangs open. Hester, myself, and the three other associate lawyers trapped in here look up in surprise.

Damon Witt is in the doorway, looking slightly crazed. Mr. Witt is another of our senior partners; mid-fifties, terrible figure, permanently awful haircut, enormous gut, three chins. He’s got great taste in suits, though.

Mr. Witt’s eyes roll across our little meeting, and his gaze rests on me.

“…yes?” Hester asks, not very pleasantly.

“I need Quinn,” Mr. Witt announces, and he lunges forward to grab me by my wrist.

Before Hester or I can protest, I’m yanked out into the hallway.

“But-“ Hester says, just as the conference room door shuts in her face. I have to admit, that was satisfying.

“Okay, okay, come with me,” Mr. Witt orders. He whirls about, and then takes off down the hallway. I try to keep up.

Paralegals and junior associates scatter before the big man as he plows his way to the elevator. I watch in amazement as he removes a silver key and inserts it into the elevator panel. **_We’re going up to the executive floor?_** Jesus. I’ve never been up there.

The private elevator rolls open, and I’m impressed to see the thick red carpeting and polished mahogany panels with mirrors inside. Wow. Mr. Witt hops in, and I follow.

Our senior partner presses a button, the door closes, and I feel the elevator rise.

“Okay, okay,” the fat man mutters, turning to face me. His face is flushed and stressed. I see that ugly vein throbbing on his temple.

To my disgust and astonishment, Mr. Witt begins to unbutton my blouse, starting at the top button.

“Hey!” I exclaim.

“Shut up, shut up,” he mutters, working quickly.

I realize: there’s not a trace of lust in this man’s demeanor. He’s exposing my chest, but its not for his own jollies.

After three buttons are undone, Mr. Witt pulls my blouse open, and now I can clearly see my own cleavage in the elevator mirrors. My push-up bra is the silent star here.

“Good, good, good,” Mr. Witt muses, stepping back and looking me up and down. I’m in a lady’s business suit, complete with skirt, black heels, and diamond stud earrings. The office uniform.

“That skirt,” says Mr. Witt. “Can you, you know, raise it up somehow? So I can see up past your knees?”

Something weird is going on. I’m both offended… and horribly curious. Curiosity wins out over my sense of feminist outrage.

Working quickly, I hike up my skirt, essentially folding about a foot of cloth over itself, right at my hips. I have narrow hips, so while this is uncomfortable, I can let my suit jacket down and it more-or-less covers the doubled garment.

There. Now I’m showing off a lot of leg. Thank God I shaved.

“Yeah…” Mr. Witt murmurs, stepping back and inspecting me with his arms folded over his chest. “Yeah, this’ll do nicely… Wait, can you put your hair down?”

Yeah, fuck it, why not. I make the adjustments. My hair is getting pretty long, so I drape it over my left shoulder. Sexy.

“Good,” comments Mr. Witt blandly. He locks me in a fierce glare. “Now, I’m about to put you in the Randall Oakwater meeting,” he tells me. “Don’t say a word. Don’t offer opinions. Don’t even look at the client. Just sit with your legs crossed, in his direction. I’ll give you a notepad, pretend like you’re taking notes.”

Randall Oakwater? Did I hear that right?

Fuck me, **_Randall Oakwater?_** Oh, shit. Now I understand everything.

*** *** ***

Whoa, whoa, whoa… you **_haven’t_** heard of Randall Oakwater?

Aw, Christ.. Okay, strap in. You’re about to get a crash course on the One Percent.

Randall Oakwater is the second son of Charles Wilson Oakwater III, yes **_that_** Charles Wilson Oakwater III, only the richest and more powerful geezer to ever shake Wall Street. Most Americans don’t know it, but Charles Oakwater owns stock in **_every fucking company_** on the market. Did you eat cereal this morning? Charles Oakwater owns part of the company that made your cereal. You’re wearing underwear from Target or Kmart right now? Old Man Oakwater owns 15% of the underwear market, plus controlling shares in Target or Kmart. Oh, you grabbed a fast food burger for lunch? Yep, Oakwater hold sizeable percentages in McDonalds, Burger King, Wendy’s, In & Out, you name it. The Oakwater empire includes assets in oil, agriculture, transportation, entertainment, commodities… and so on. You get the idea.

That’s Charles Oakwater. **_Randall_** Oakwater isn’t as powerful as his father, but he’s still the son of the Pharaoh. The Oakwaters are known and feared, and Randall wields that fear very, very well.

I actually don’t know much about him. I know that Randall is disgustingly rich, to the point where he’s not even sure how many penthouse apartments he owns. He has an interest in filmmaking, but I don’t think he’s that into the artistic side of things. He just likes the glamor. Uh, what else…? He donates heavily to the Republican Party. I think I read somewhere that the GOP wants rename a national park or something in his honor. Maybe it was the Democrats? I can’t remember.

Rumor has it that Randall is an extremely vain man, who holds grudges for decades. He likes suing people, like, a **_lot_**. I’ve heard that he employs over seven different law firms across the New York City area. I know he owns about 25% of our firm.

Oh, and Randall has an eye for young ladies. Which probably explains why I’m being hurried into this meeting with my tits out and my legs showing. Eye candy distracts.

*** *** ***

“Remember,” Mr. Witt hisses at me as we approach the executive boardroom, “say **_nothing_**. Keep your eyes **_down_**. Don’t fuck this up, we need this.”

“Right,” I start to say. “And I’ll-“

“Just shut up!” the senior partner gasps, then pushes the boardroom doors open. He rushes in.

I take a moment to compose myself, then follow.

*** *** ***


	2. Killer Instinct

The boardroom is **_huge_** , easily the size of John’s apartment and then some. Situated on a corner of the building, up on the thirty-seventh floor, the room has unobstructed views of Rockefeller Plaza, the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings up here. Breathtaking. The polished ebony table has the dimensions of a small swimming pool, enough for fifty lawyers to sit around and still have elbow room. I see catering trolleys with white tablecloths against the northern wall, and there’s a small team of chefs fussing over the platters.

Sitting around the table are all our senior partners, all dressed in thousand-dollar suits, and all sweating bullets. I’ve never seen the partners look so panicked before. They fidget with their pens and try to maintain strained smiles. Their executive assistants, scrawny men in hundred-dollar suits, hover behind them, also looking anxious.

And sitting alone at the head of the table?

Randall Oakwater. In the flesh. There’s no mistaking the man.

I’ve only ever seen him in the newspapers. Mr. Oakwater is tall and thin, with a square jaw and big, gorilla-like hands. He’s balding, and in need of a haircut. He hunches forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table, absently rapping those big knuckles on the ebony. I notice that he sits with his feet far apart.

An in instant, I realize: Our partners range from age sixty and up. The assistants are mid-thirties. Mr. Oakwater is, I’m guessing, late fifties? I’m twenty-six. I’m easily the youngest person in this room by a decade. And the only woman.

Mr. Witt scurries to a chair, and I notice that there is one last seat at the table, close to Mr. Oakwater, sort of pushed to the side. I glance at Mr. Witt.

He meets my gaze, then darts his eyes to that side chair. That’s where I’m supposed to sit.

Walking calmly, I glide to my chair, just to Mr. Oakwater’s right. I sit down like a queen assuming her throne, my back straight, my shoulders square, my head held high. Then, once the tush is situated, I slowly cross my legs at the knee. The crossed leg points toward our eminent client.

An assistant appears at my elbow, handing me a legal pad and a pen. I accept these smoothly, never looking up to thank the giver.

Meanwhile, since the moment I entered, Mr. Oakwater has been bellowing a nonstop stream of orders. “I want the bitch crushed,” he bellows. “ ** _Crushed!_** Fucking crushed, you get me? I was nothing but nice to her, you get me? Nothing but nice! But now, now she **_dares_** to fucking cut me? **_ME?!?_** Fuck her. **_Fuck! Her!_** I want her crushed.”

“Mr. Oakwater,” Nelson Baker, our founding partner, pleads. “We understand your, ah, concern in this matter. But the young lady-“

“ ** _Skank!_** ” shouts Mr. Oakwater. “You’ll call her what she is! A skank!” He slaps the table with one massive palm. “That’s a fucking order! Everyone at this shitty firm is to refer to her as Skank Number One! You get me?”

“Yes… er, yes sir,” Mr. Baker replies, turning paler by the second. “But, uh, sir, we would still need grounds to confront Miss… er, Miss Buxley in court.”

“Grounds?” complains our premiere client, almost spitting the word. “What, what grounds? The skank is running around telling lies about me! Nothing but shitty lies! Nail her fucking butt for slander. Or liable. Or both.”

“Mr. Oakwater,” Grover Travis, another partner attempts, “we’d have to make sure that-“

“Make sure nothing!” thunders Mr. Oakwater, almost bouncing in his chair. “I want you to sue the skank today, **_today, you fucking hear me?_** Get the paperwork in today.”

Oh, Jesus. Randall Oakwater is here to push a lawsuit, and he doesn’t have a specific case? It sounds like he just wants to punish this Miss Buxley, whomever she is. He mentioned slander; so this Miss Buxley is probably someone well-connected with the press? A socialite or columnist, maybe.

But if we can’t point a judge to some specific offense this Miss Buxley has committed, our firm could be wide open to a countersuit. This is playing with dynamite.

Mr. Oakwater snorts, then glances in my direction. I feel his eyes on me.

I pretend to finish a note, then sloooooowly look up. I meet his stare. I use my best _come hither_ look.

Huh. Randall Oakwater not an attractive man, to be sure. Oh, his suit probably cost five figures, and he wears it well. But his face is a patchwork of wrinkles and creases, probably from a lifetime of snarling so much. I think his eyes are brown, but they appear almost black in this light. His teeth are crooked and there’s an ugly black wart on the side of his neck. He’s got undeniable charisma… but its not an attractive charisma. He’s far more pit bull than golden retriever.

As we regard one another, I raise, then lower my leg at the knee, just a little. Then I smile. Then I cast my eyes down.

“Hmmgh,” Mr. Oakwater says. He’s still thinking about yelling at the partners, but now his imagination is undressing me.

Is it wrong… but I kind of like that?

Mr. Witt clears his throat. “Mr. Oakwater,” he says, trying to muster courage, “we can’t sue Miss Buxley without proof of slanderous intent. If she-“

This approach is a mistake. “ ** _WHAT YOU FUCKING SAY?_** ” Mr. Oakwater roars, causing everyone to jump. I’m sure everyone in the building and then the hot dog vendors down on Sixth Avenue jumped, too.

Mr. Oakwater starts smacking the table with his palm to accentuate his words. “I don’t **_fucking_** care if that **_fucking_** skank has taken a **_fucking_** vow of silence as a **_fucking_** nun! You slap her so hard with a **_motherfucking lawsuit_** for slander and then **_ANOTHER_** one for harassment, you hear me?”

Half our partners look about ready to faint. The situation is deteriorating, fast.

“Mr. Oakwater,” I murmur, using my sexy voice.

The room falls silent. All eyes turn on me.

“I’m certain,” I say with poise and confidence, “that our legal team can draft the appropriate response. Your every need is our first and highest priority.”

“There,” Mr. Oakwater declares, glaring at the partners while gesturing to me. “There. **_That’s_** what I fucking want. Is that so fucking hard?”

“Yessir,” mumbles Mr. Witt, averting his eyes. “I mean, no sir.”

“Get it done,” Mr. Oakwater growls, rising to his feet. Immediately, everyone in the room stands with him. “Get is done today. Oh, and I want **_her_** on my team.” He stabs a finger at me.

“Yessir,” Mr. Witt says again.

 ** _Whaaaaaat?_** Did I just hear what I thought I just heard?

With that, Mr. Oakwater turns and strides from the room. He never once glances at the caterers, who are just unveiling their delicacies.

But as he passes through the doorframe, Mr. Oakwater glances back and makes eye contact with me.

In a flash, I see my opportunity.

“I’ll just see him out,” I announce to no-one in particular, then hurry after our cash cow. I ignore the alarmed shouts of the partners as I flee.

*** *** ***

I zip into the executive elevator just as the doors are closing. Its just me and Mr. Randall Oakwater in here.

Oh God, this is actually exciting!

Yes, I know, Mr. Oakwater is as ugly as a warthog. He’s older than my father. He smells like a tobacco shop and there’s this creepy way his eyes bug out, just a little, when he’s looking at you. Every instinct in my body should be telling me to avoid this man **_at all costs_**.

But… I don’t know… he’s **_dangerous_**. Volatile. He oozes with power and contempt. He’s like someone stuffed the leader of Hell’s Angels into a Brooks Brothers suit and Italian shoes. He’s a Bad Boy CEO.

I kinda find that hot.

Oh, shut up, shut up, I know what you’re thinking. I just want to flirt with him for his money, right?

Well, you’re not wrong. Or, its more accurate to say that I respect Mr. Randall Oakwater for his power and money. He uses both very, very well. He’s accustomed to privilege and he takes what he wants. I totally dig that.

“Mr. Oakwater,” I say demurely as the elevator begins its descent.

“You’re the only one,” he grunts in way of greeting.

“Excuse me?” I ask politely.

Mr. Oakwater rolls his eyes. “You’re the only one with balls,” he rumbles, flexing those meaty hands. “You should be running this joint, you’re the only one with a killer instinct. **_That’s_** what it takes to get ahead in this world.”

“We won’t disappoint you, sir,” I promise blindly.

The billionaire smirks, and his eyes unmistakably wander into my cleavage. “What’s yer name, toots?” he asks.

Although I’m having an allergic reaction to being addressed as ‘ _toots_ ,’ I produce my business card. **_Thank God_** I always keep a few in my jacket breast pocket. “Quinn McKinnon, sir.”

“Hmmgh,” Mr. Oakwater nods. He studies my card, then slips it into his own pocket. “I’ll have my eye on you, Miss Quinn.”

*** *** ***

“What did I **_expressly_** say?” Mr. Witt fumes.

I rode with Mr. Oakwater all the way down to the parking level, then back up alone, and now I’m being accosted by half the firm’s partners when I step off the elevator. They stare at me with a mixture of outrage and horror.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Witt,” I say plainly, “but our client was losing faith-“

“You should have let us handle that meeting!” cries Mr. Baker, his fat face turning red. “Now our firm is committed to…” He lets his voice trail off.

What did Mr. Oakwater just say to me? _Killer instinct. That’s what it takes to get ahead in this world._

“Gentlemen,” I say crisply. “Our firm just lost our two biggest corporate clients, no? We need the Oakwater account.”

The partners glare at me and shuffle on their feet. But no-one argues.

“Fine,” snaps Mr. Witt. “But you’re on this case now. Better not fuck it up.”

*** *** ***

I take **_enormous_** pleasure in telling Boring Hester that I am no longer be on her team and she can kindly go and fuck off. Now that I’m on the Oakwater account, I’ve graduated to the Big Leagues. The expression on Hester’s face is priceless.

“ ** _Randall Oakwater?_** ” Hester exclaims, looking thunderstruck. “Quinn, shut the door.”

We’re in Hester’s cramped little office. I wiggle around the boxes of document folders and push the door closed. What, is Hester going to berate me now?

But my now-former supervisor looks at me with concern. “Quinn, are you sure you want this?” she asks softly. “I don’t know what you’ve heard… but the partners say that Randall Oakwater is the Devil.”

Oh, please. She’s jealous.

“Sorry, Hes,” I say breezily. “Mr. Oakwater has spotted my talents, and I think his account might be a good next step in my career.”

Hester weighs her response, then just shakes her head. “Just be careful, okay?” she tells me.

*** *** ***

Next, I go to the Records department and ask to see everything we have in Randall Oakwater’s file.

I immediately feel ill when I read what we have. It seems that Mr. Oakwater is hellbent on suing one Miss Tricia Buxley, age twenty-three. Miss Buxley lives in Canarsie (outer Brooklyn) with her mother. She subways into the city six times a week to teach yoga at Hemmency’s, a well-to-do spa on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She has no property to speak of, but is carrying about $35,000 in college debt.

I feel nauseous. Sooooooooo… this “Miss Buxley” isn’t a wealthy heiress or Manhattanite, someone who idly gossips about Randall Oakwater in skanky cocktail parties. Oh, no. Miss Buxley’s, like, a regular person. She actually reminds me of girls I used to tease in high school.

…the heck? Why does Mr. Oakwater care about this chick?

I flip through the file our private investigator compiled on Tricia Buxley, and then I understand. In her surveillance photos, Tricia is one shapely beauty, all boobs and ass and legs. She stops traffic when she goes out in those skintight leggings. She’s gorgeous, but effortlessly gorgeous, you know? As I study her long brown hair, her twinkling eyes, that dazzling smile (with dimples!), and that trim, sizzling figure, I realize what a stunner she is. I also kinda hate her for her beauty.

A few more billing records spell out the picture. About six month ago, Mr. Oakwater, a patron at Hemmency’s, spotted Miss Buxley. Or, I suspect, he spotted her perfect, toned and curvy ass. He spent a month billing “exclusive lessons” with her. Then, shortly after that, he was charging late-night dinners and nights at the Plaza Hotel to his company’s expense reports. Guess who was listed as his “plus one” for those rendezvous? Not his wife.

So Tricia became the Mistress of Oakwater for about… hmm, four months. Looks like he dropped about **_seventy-five thou_** on her. Wow.

Then, out of the blue, all these expenses stop. Abruptly stop. Seems that Tricia broke things off with Mr. Oakwater, and… well, my star client doesn’t take rejection well. He flipped out, and now is on the warpath determined to sue her out of spite. He doesn’t care what we sue her for, only that we sue and we crush her.

Jesus. He’s a junkyard dog.

*** *** ***

I mull over my latest case that night over dinner with John. We’re dining at _L’Traviata_ , our fave Italian place. “What’s up, baby?” he asks me, sensing my unease.

I decide to evade. “Tell me something,” I frown, poking at my antipasti. “How often do you work on a trade that’s… ah, that you’re not totally comfortable with?”

John straightens a little. “Depends,” he says vaguely.

I shoot him an exasperated look.

“Fine,” John says, slicing into his veal. “Actually, there’s never such a thing as a trade that you feel **_totally_** okay with. Today, I talked to Mrs. Bethany Hanson of Omaha. Talked her into buying five hundred shares of IBM.”

“And that’s… bad?” I ask. “I thought IBM was a good stock.”

“It is,” agrees John. “Solid performer. But like any stock, there are some red flags. What if the stock tanks tomorrow? Mrs. Bethany Hanson of Omaha is shit out of luck.” He shrugs. “And then, too fucking bad for her.”

“Ah,” I reply.

“The way I see it,” John muses, “my job is to serve the clients. If the clients are stupid or fucking heartless, well, that’s not on me. Its not my job to second-guess them. Or else I’d never get anywhere in the market.” He pops a huge chunk of veal into his mouth.

He’s right. The client comes first. I have to remember that.

*** *** ***

The problem with Tricia Buxley, Sexy Yoga Instructor from Hemmency’s, is that she doesn’t have a big mouth. I’ve been cyberstalking the girl for a week, and there’s nothing I can find that we can remotely claim to be slanderous of Mr. Oakwater. Hell, she never even **_mentions_** Mr. Oakwater. She never fucking complains about anything! All her social media posts are cute cat videos and raves about The Bachelor. What a loser.

So… this pretty much fucks me. How’m I supposed to sue this chick?

I go out to the sidewalk. I take a cigarette break, literally and figuratively fuming over the situation. Maybe the slander angle is the wrong approach? Maybe Tricia is guilty of some **_other_** affront to Mr. Oakwater. But what…?

Inspiration hits me. I stamp out my cigarette, and then ride the elevator back up to the firm.

*** *** ***

I’ve been around the block long enough to know that **_everyone_** has an exploitable weakness. Everyone. When I was ten, my dad and I were driving about town. Dad got momentarily distracted, and bumped the car in front of us. Not much, just a tap of metal on metal. I actually thought we’d nudged the curb.

But the fat woman in the car ahead of us, one Ms. Fanny Mae Tuberbanks, went berserk. She screamed bloody murder, claiming back injuries and loss of monetary income and psychological distress and I don’t know what else. Through her cheap phone book lawyer, she eventually browbeat my poor dad out of over **_twenty-five thousand dollars_**. And the dumb fool just kept bending over and letting her do it! I could have gone to Stanford if it wasn’t for that greedy, lazy bitch.

As much as I’ve always hated her, I have to admit: Fanny Mae taught me something critical about life. There are two types of people in this world, the climbers and the sitters. Ms. Tuberbanks was a climber. When she saw an opportunity, she fucking seized it with both hands. She was clear-eyed about her ambitions, and she didn’t allow anything to slow her down. My dad, sweet man that his is, was a sitter. He sat on his ass and let her take whatever she wanted.

Now that I think about it, you know who else is a climber? My old pal, Douglass Alberta, District Attorney of Nassau County. I knew him as a fat little kid years ago, but Doug really made something of himself. You don’t reach an office like DA by sitting around, that’s for damn sure. Doug’s a climber. I’ve come to respect that.

(And between you and me… I’ll bet you anything that the Oakwaters are a family of climbers. How else could they have risen to the pinnacle of American success?)

Goddamnit, I’m not going to waste my time on Earth sitting on my ass. I’m gonna be a climber.

*** *** ***

Our firm’s Expense Department is on the thirty-third floor. Mei Wong is the general supervisor. I push my way into her office and then shut the door.

“Sooo…” I say, flashing my best smile, “don’t know if you heard, Mei, but I’m on the Oakwater account now.”

“Woof!” Mei extols. “That’s huge.” She almost looks suspicious. “Congratulations.”

“So I’ll need access to the Oakwater expense account, plus the firm credit card,” I tell her. “And I need a few things right off the bat.”

“Okay. Like what?” said Mei, her smile frozen.

“For starters…” I inform her, “I’ll need a membership at Hemmency’s.”

*** *** ***


	3. The Wiggity Wack

The lobby of Hemmency’s is niiiiiiiiice. Like, jaw-droppingly incredible. Imagine the lobby of any five star European hotel (I’ve been in a few) and then add actual Roman columns of white marble, a babbling fountain, and a puffy sitting area that’s in the natural sunlight. The check-in desk is manned by freakin’ Aryan supermen, young hotties who are blonde and evenly tanned and chiseled and don’t have an ounce of body fat anywhere. They all wear the same streamlined white uniform; tight across their broad chests, with those little collars and nametags. Kinda kinky.

“Um, hiiiiiiii, uh, so when can I catch the next Beginner’s Yoga class?” I sheepishly ask the first attendant, who consults his computer without so much as a blink at me.

(…God, this attendant’s gorgeous! I momentarily forget about John and Mr. Oakwater and fantasize about **_him!_** Yummy.)

“Beginners’ Yoga,” the Aryan dreamboat says without the slightest interest. “Two o’clock. Kundalini Studio, fourth floor.”

“Okay, thanks, you’ve been so very helpful, that was really, really great,” I babble.

The genetically-bred superhottie offers me a curt nod, but doesn’t even make eye contact. Damnit.

My romantic dreams crushed, I grab an elevator up to 4.

*** *** ***

The Plan is simple. Step One: Take a few of Tricia Buxley’s yoga classes, observe, and then get to know her. Step Two: Coax girlfriend out for drinks, ply her with a few, and then on to Step Three: Get her to confess something – **_anything_** – we can use against her in civil court.

I’ll have to use one of the firm’s other lawyers for verbal arguments, of course. Tricia must never know that I’m with Baker, Baker, Travis, Witt, and Locklin. Or else my cover’s blown.

*** *** ***

Okay, okay, let me pause here, because I **_know_** what you’re thinking.

You’re saying to yourself… Quinn, isn’t it, like, **_really bad_** for a lawyer to spy on the opposing litigant? Illegal, even?

Yes. This is totally illegal.

Legally, what I’m doing is Misconduct, in violation of New York State Unified Court Rules of Professional Conduct, Rule 8.4 (p 72), Subsections (a), (b), and I’m pretty sure (c). A mentor friend of mine would call this the “Wiggity Wack.”

Yeah, whatever. You wanna know something?

I don’t give a fuck. Everybody does it.

**_Everybody._ **

So let’s conduct a little thought experiment, shall we? I can play by the rules, dig up nothing on little Miss Buxley, and lose Mr. Oakwater’s business. My firm will go under, and my career will nosedive. Meanwhile, some other firm without my scruples will take Mr. Oakwater’s case, and what good will that do me?

It seems to me that my options are the Wiggity Wack or Unemployment. Pretty easy choice.

Besides, how is the Bar Association or the cops gonna know? Who’s gonna tell them? **_You?_**

 _Pfft_. Please.

*** *** ***

I’ve never done yoga in my life, so I guess its dumb luck that Tricia Buxley teaches the newbies. I find the Kundalini Studio, stash my dufflebag in the back, then spread out my brand new mat on the floor. The mat is stiff, and it smells of industrial plastic wrap.

The class rapidly populates with sleek and limber women in their thirties and forties. I’m guessing these are the Upper East Side Trophy Wives, filling the hours while their husbands are at work and their kids are in private school. They really, really like plastic surgery. With my unenhanced, curvy body and bad posture, I really stand out here.

The side door opens, and none other than Tricia Buxley herself bounds into the room. “Hi, everybodieeeeeee!” she chirps merrily.

Gawd, Tricia’s **_beautiful_** …! Her glowing face looks even more gorgeous in person than in those surveillance photos. Her smile alone, with her cherry red lips and flawless white teeth, is worth a million dollars. Her thick brown hair is pulled back into a high pony tail, which is both simple and sexy. And in her skintight peach Lululemon leggings, sports bra, and bare feet, Tricia looks practically nude. Her apple-like boobs bounce happily whenever she moves. Yowza!

I’m completely straight. But I’d seriously consider switching teams if it meant I could make out with Tricia for half an hour. No wonder Mr. Oakwater wanted her.

“How is everyone today?” Tricia beams, laying out her well-worn mat. She dims the lights, sets up two candles, and then activates the music. A trancey song comes on the speakers, at very low volume.

“Anyone new here?” the body goddess asks, scanning the class. Her eyes fall on me.

I feel a twinge of panic. Maybe this was a bad idea?

“Well, hi there,” smiles Tricia, coming over to shake my hand. Her fingers and palms are incredibly soft, like she uses a bucket of moisturizing lotion every day. “I’m Tricia, welcome, welcome. Is this your first yoga class?”

“Uh, yeah,” I mumble.

“Well, don’t worry about keeping up. I announce all the positions as I demonstrate. Just do what you can, listen to your body, and have fun!”

I blush and mutter a lame thanks.

“Great!” Tricia crows. She skips back to the front of the class. “Alright, everyone, let’s begin with some deep breathing, eh? Focus on those _chakras!_ ”

I don’t know what to make of this chick. She’s, like, half peppy cheerleader, half kindergarten teacher, with the sinful body of the Penthouse Pet of the Year. She seems hopelessly innocent.

Why do I suddenly feel… guilty?

*** *** ***

Over the next two days, I take four of Tricia’s classes. I’m terrible at yoga, but that’s not the point. I’m on a stakeout, watching my prey. Trying to learn about her, anything about her.

One thing is clear: I suck at yoga.

Tricia never seems to mind, always encouraging me with sugary comments like, “ _Good form!_ ” or “ _That’s right, eeeeeease into it,_ ” or “ _Yes, girlfriend!_ ” I seriously want to punch her stupid face after Class #2.

But after two days of playing spy, its pretty clear that my little plan is going no-where. Tricia is always “on” when she teaches, always the bubbly happy Hemmency’s instructor. There’s no opportunity to get to know her personally.

And I have another, more serious problem. Whenever I interact with Yoga Barbie, I get all tongue-tied and nervous. What the fuck? I’ve argued in court with scary litigators and condescending judges. I’ve never frozen up before. But when I talk to Tricia, its like my brain goes wobbly, and the most articulate sentence I can manage is, “Uh, you’re, ah, really, really, really… cool.” I sound like a caveman.

You know what it is? Its my damn guilt. My Goddamn guilty conscience, nagging at me. **_Fuck!_** I can’t believe it!

*** *** ***

When I check my work messages that evening, there’s a voicemail that sends chills down my spine:

“ _Miss McKinnon, this is Jack Mortimer, executive assistant to Mr. Randall Oakwater. Mr. Oakwater would like an update on your progress with his requested lawsuit? You have petitioned for several delays in your preparations, and Mr. Oakwater has been most generous in granting you that time. But his patience has limits. Please submit your litigation plans, in writing, by this Friday, or we will be dropping your firm from this case. Good day._ ”

In other words: **_Tell me how you’re gonna crush Tricia Buxley in civil court, or I’ll crush you. Have a nice fucking day._**

I put down the phone, sick to my stomach. I’ve got nothing on Tricia, nothing at all. As far as I can tell, the girl is an angel. She spends all her time teaching yoga, being supernice to everyone, and looking hot. Unless I observe her orchestrate a major drug deal or go on a shooting rampage, I don’t think we’ll have much with which to nail her with in court.

I gotta up my game. **_But how?_** Every time I talk with Tricia, my brain goes all stupid. What if…

An idea hits me.

I am, it so happens, incredibly susceptible to hypnosis. Why can’t I get hypnotized to complete my mission?

Hmm. This idea has real possibilities. The more I ruminate, the more it seems like the perfect out. Why didn’t I think of this before?

*** *** ***

That night, I wait until John is brushing his teeth. He’s always half-asleep at this time of night, and won’t remember if I ask him a bizarre but random question.

“Hey,” I say absently. “I was thinking about that **_crazy_** time when I got hypnotized in AC. You remember?”

“Huh?” John blinks. “Oh, yeah.”

“Who was your college buddy who did hypnosis as a hobby, again?”

John spits into the sink, swishes some water, spits again.

I lean closer. “Who was it, baby?”

“Uh, Jasper,” he grunts, reaching for the floss. “Jasper Patterson.”

“Right, Jasper…!” I say, then quickly change the subject.

*** *** ***

Its thirty minutes later, and John is passed out in our bed. He snores like an idling bulldozer.

I creep into John’s home office. Then I open his laptop, tap in his password (“ _Boobs123_ ” – sheesh!), and pull up his Firefox. Half of my dumb fiancée’s bookmarks are porn sites – so gross – but I find his Facebook soon enough. Within three minutes, I have the contact information I need.

Now I switch to my phone, send Jasper a friend request from my own Facebook account. Then I add a note: “ ** _Hey, you still doing hypnosis? LOL. Wonder if you can help me.”_**

That should intrigue the little geek.

*** *** ***

Jasper must live or die by Facebook. I get a response back in four minutes. We agree to hook up after work tomorrow for a quick coffee. That was easy!

I vaguely remember Jasper as the skinny guy who was in the background at John’s frat parties. He tried to hit on me in those days, so I kept my distance.

*** *** ***

When I see Jasper face-to-face, its like the dude hasn’t aged a day. He must be twenty-six now, but he still looks, like, twelve. He must get carded all the time. He’s still skinny, with an angular face, sandy blonde hair, and brown eyes. When he smiles, his lips stretch back and he shows all his white teeth. He’s not what I would call attractive, but hey, some other girl will go for him. I’d assume.

We’re in the 49th Street Starbucks. Its raining outside, so the place is packed.

Jasper offers to buy me anything I want, and instantly, I realize three things: One, he still has the hots for me. Good. Two, he’ll be easy to manipulate. See Item One. Three, because Jasper’s Facebook status is “Married,” but he’s trying to get into my pants, he isn’t the most moral person around. Which is ideal for my purposes.

I order a Vanilla Bean Mocha Frappuccino, then wait impatiently as the little geek fights the crowds to get it.

When he returns, the two of us make small talk for exactly three minutes. I really couldn’t care less about catching up.

“So,” I say crisply, before Jasper can prattle on about his career, “you still do hypnosis?”

“Yeah…” the geek replies, obviously intrigued.

“So, I’m…” I muse delicately, “…looking to get hypnotized myself.”

“Really?” Jasper exclaims, leaning forward. “For what?”

This is the part of the conversation I’ve been dreading. What I basically need Jasper to do is hypnotize me to become calm, focused, and ruthless the next time I’m talking with Tricia. And maybe to fake some emotions when I speak with her. But how do I explain to Jasper **_why_** I need this?

Should I lie and tell him that I’m in a play, and I need to be programmed to perform a role? Naw, too corny. Maybe if I’m vague about what I want, he can just give me general hypnotic suggestions for super-confidence? That might work. I just don’t know.

One thing is certain: If I’m to crack Tricia before Friday, I need a hypnotist now. I don’t have time to Google around for one and hope that they can be fooled into becoming my accomplice. Its Jasper or bust.

“I… need help with confidence,” I explain as casually as I can. “Its kind of a sensitive matter.”

“Confidence, okay,” Jasper nods. “I can do that. But I’ll need to know: confidence for what?”

Shit.

I study Jasper carefully. He’s hanging on my every word. He’s also glancing at my lips and breasts, so he’s into me. I can use that.

“I’m researching a client for my firm by becoming her friend,” I say, hoping to make this sound totally normal. “But I need help acting confident while I’m with her. This is kinda a ‘black op’ assignment for lawyers. Its…” I wave my hand. “…technical.”

Jasper nods again, as if he understands.

I really haven’t given him much information, so hopefully he’ll never realize I’m asking for help in something illegal. “Look, can you help me?” I challenge him. “We can work out some sort of payment.”

“I want to make out with you,” Jasper demands.

My jaw drops before I can catch myself.

“Ex ** _CUSE_** me?” I cry. A few fellow patrons look in our direction.

“You heard me,” Jasper says plainly. “I don’t want money. But I’ve always thought that you were hot, and I want to make out with you. Fifteen minutes. That’s my price.”

Ah, fuck. Jasper’s seen right through me. He’s read the situation perfectly and he doesn’t care that I want hypnosis for an unethical act. He’s also guessed that I’m his only hypnotism option. He’s got me over a barrel.

“Fuck you, dude!” I hiss. “I’m getting married, to John! You were there when we hooked up, for Christsake.”

“And I **_am_** married, Quinn,” Jasper replies levelly. His gaze coolly holds mine. “And I’ll tell you now, married life for a realist like me means stopping and enjoying some of life’s side dishes every now and then.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “You want a few minutes to think it over?”

I glare at the slimeball. How fucking dare he?

Of course… Jasper’s just being a climber. Just like Fanny Mae Tuberbanks. He sees an opportunity, and he’s exploiting it. It really sucks that he’s exploiting me, but I can see where the dude’s coming from.

 _Okay, Quinn,_ I think sourly. _Let’s analyze this as if it was a rational transaction._ I begin to ask myself some questions.

Could I make out with Jasper? …eh, yeah, I guess I could. I mean, he’s not handsome, but he’s not ugly, either. He’s well-groomed, has good hygiene, actually cares about his appearance. I’ve made out with worse.

Will I regret this? I mean, accepting this deal means cheating on John. Let’s get real for a second. When I accepted John’s proposal, I never seriously thought that I was gonna be faithful to him forever. And I’m sure John will someday cheat on me. I mean, that’s what married people do, right? I just thought my first cheat would be when I’m in my late forties, not before the wedding.

What are my other options? Here, I’m gnashing my teeth. I’ve got two days to smoke out Tricia. If I refuse Jasper, can I find another hypnotist? …probably not.

God damn it.

“Five minutes,” I counteroffer. “I don’t take off my clothes. And I’m not making out with you when I’m under hypnosis. We do it before.” I’m not stupid.

Jasper studies my bust, then replies, “Ten minutes. And I want to feel you up.”

Ugh. “Ten minutes, you can feel me all you want **_over_** my clothes. No touching me down below.”

“Ten minutes,” he says, “but I want to feel your boobs. Under the bra. And we do everything lying down.”

“Whoa, dude!” I balk. “Rape much? Uh-uh. No lying down.”

“I want to feel your girls,” he demands coolly. “Ten minutes, deep French kiss, my hands on your mammies. After that, I’ll hypnotize you to believe anything you want. Sound good?”

“One more condition,” I say quickly. “I bring a girlfriend to watch everything. To make sure you stick to the agreement.”

Jasper makes a face. “You want your girlfriend to watch us make out? I mean, that could be hot, but-”

“No dumbass,” I snap, “I want her to watch you when you hypnotize me. I so don’t trust you.”

“Oh,” the geek replies. “Okay, sure. That will help you feel safer, and you’ll go deeper, actually.” He leans in and extends a hand. “We’ve got a deal?”

After I throw up a little in my mouth, I grimace and accept his handshake. “Deal.”

*** *** ***

I get insanely lucky when I check my texts. John is being sent to London for three days, a surprise business trip. I seems that his firm’s London office all got food poisoning from bad catering, and they have to airlift some American staff to cover while the Brits are puking their guts out.

Yes! Now I have the apartment to myself; that makes logistics easy. I text my girlfriend Morgan, invite her over, then call the Slimeball. I mean Jasper.

*** *** ***

Jasper arrives at the apartment in record time.

“Oh, this is so cool,” he gushes as he and I sit next to one another on John’s sofa.

Its time to make out. Ugh. I’ve changed into a tee shirt with an old sports bra for his easy access. “You ready?” I ask dryly. “You popped a couple of Tic-Tacs?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” Jasper grins, and reaches for me.

I set a timer on my phone, then take him into my arms.

This is gonna be like the ninth grade all over again, isn’t it?

…actually, Jasper’s not a bad kisser. His lips are tender. They embrace me slowly, gently. No tongue, not at first.

After that first liplock, his hands slide up my side, but over my shirt. He caresses my boobs from the outside.

I’m close to him, and I can feel his cock get erect. Nothing we’re doing so far excites me, but at least I know he’s enjoying his end of the bargain.

Jasper moans a little, and now both his hands dive under my top. His fingers peel up my bra, and I feel my girls fall forward. To my surprise, my nipples are erect.

Now, Jasper is cupping me and tonguing me and trying to get as close to me as possible. Oh, God. I can tell he wants me to lie down so he can get on top, but I ain’t doing that. Nope. I kiss him back, hold him by his shoulders, and wait for the timer to go off.

*** *** ***

An hour later, Morgan finally arrives at my apartment.

“Where you been?” I ask her angrily. Ever since Jasper and I finished necking, the hypnotist has been sitting on my couch the whole time, staring at my chest. I can’t wait to be rid of him.

“Sorry, sorry, the subway was late,” Morgan whines.

She’s lying. I checked the sub app on my phone, knowing she would try to pull some bullshit like this.

Oh, screw it. I just need to get hypnotized, and then life can go on.

*** *** ***

Jasper sits me in an armless chair, right in the center of the living room. He stands in front of me; Morgan observes everything from the couch. For good measure, she’s filming the whole hypnosis session on my phone.

(Yes, I’ve explained what I’m doing to Morgan. “Well, I’m sure this Tricia chick is a total bitch,” was her only reaction. “I’m sure she deserves what she’s getting.” Good ol’ Mor.)

“Now, close your eyes,” Jasper says to me. “You will focus on the sound of my voice, and **_only_** the sound of my voice. Relax your eye muscles, relax your face, relax every part of your body…”

Jasper’s words grow soft and smooth. I listen, wondering when something’s going to happen.

Maybe a minute passes? I pay close attention to everything Jasper says, but… well, nothing seems to be changing. Am I being hypnotized? What if this geek is talentless? What if…?

My eyes are closed, and it surprises me when my right hand suddenly slips off my lap dangles toward the floor. Huh. I thought it was feeling a little heavy. But shouldn’t…

My whole body feels heavy. Very heavy. And so good. Yeah… Nice.

And then, my thoughts fade…

*** *** ***


	4. Sting Operation

“…and awaken!” I hear Jasper saying. He’s snapping his fingers, loudly.

I slowly open my eyes, feeling befuddled. My body feels like I just took ten yoga classes, all back-to-back-to-back. I am **_so_** relaxed.

…did we do the hypnosis yet?

Wait! We **_did!_** I got hypnotized! I sit up, trying to pull my memory into order.

“How do you feel?” Jasper asks me. He’s still standing before me, and is now broadly smiling.

Goddamn, I’ve been hypnotized. I must be really susceptible.

“I’m… good, good,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “Uh, how’d it go?”

“You did amazing,” Jasper assures me. “You’re the perfect subject.”

“I still can’t remember anything,” I frown. “Morgan?”

My friend is blinking at me. She looks lost in thought.

“Mor?” I say again. “How’d it go?”

“Yeah,” Morgan says. “You went right under.” She shakes her head, at a loss for words. “I’ve never seen anyone hypnotized before, but I guess it worked really well on you. You were totally responsive to everything Jasper said.”

“Lemme see the phone,” I demand. Morgan hands it over.

I almost blow a fuse when I see that no video has been recorded.

“The **_fuck_** , girl?” I snarl. “You had one job!”

Morgan looks embarrassed. “Oh, jeez… Sorry, Quinn,” she mumbles. “I guess I had it on ‘photo’ the whole time.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jasper says quickly. Thankfully, the dude is getting his coat. “Quinn, you did awesome, and you’re ready for your playdate with the yoga instructor. Morgan, am I right?”

Morgan nods empathically.

“Just remember,” Jasper tells me, “when the time is right, tap your wrist three times.”

*** *** ***

While I make a point to appear in the office every morning, I’m practically living at Hemmency’s these days. I can tell that my colleagues are deeply jealous, but… eh, screw ‘em. I’m on special assignment for Mr. Oakwater.

Its Thursday. Tricia has three classes, and I make a point to grunt and sweat through all three. (I think I’m finally getting the hang of crow pose!) I can tell that the Yoga Goddess is surprised to see me so often, but that’s okay. All part of the plan.

*** *** ***

By 7:00 PM, I’m down in the lobby, once again staring at the megahotties working the check-in desk. **_Where do they find those guys?_** Seriously, is there a genetics laboratory in Hemmency’s basement that just keeps cranking out physically perfect clones? I wanna know.

The stairwell door opens, and Miss Tricia Buxley emerges, in her street coat, scarf, gloves, and iPhone. She’s carrying her backpack. For the first time, I notice that she has a glittery ring on her middle finger. Weird. How’d a dirt-poor yoga instructor get some bling?

Whatever. Time to go to work. I swallow the guilt that has been gnawing at me. Phase One of my plan begins!

Timing things carefully, I approach the street doors, arriving at the same time as Tricia.

“Oh!” she exclaims, recognizing me. “Well, hello there!”

“Hey,” I reply.

We pass through the revolving door and are out on the sidewalk. I am already tapping my wrist three times.

Suddenly… right on cue… my guilt vanishes. Instead, a wave of sadness washes over me. I feel absolute despair. Jasper’s hypnotic suggestions are kicking in.

As a part of my plan, I allow the file folder I’m holding to drop open. The black-and-white photos inside the folder spill out, and begin blowing about in the brisk wind.

“Oh no!” I cry, my voice breaking with emotion. “No, no, no!”

I make a futile attempt at trying to catch the photos. They scatter into the air like fleeing birds.

To my amazement, I’m shaking and actually crying real tears! Real tears! Jasper hypnotized me to become as sad as possible, and by God, his suggestions are **_fucking working!_** I’m near-hysterical, sobbing frantically as the photos are whisked away.

In a flash, Tricia is at my side. She successfully stomps on one of the pictures, then carefully picks it up. “Hey, are you okay?” she asks me, her voice welling with concern.

My chest is heaving. I accept the photo, then burst into tears once more. “Oh, oh God…!” I choke. “Thank you, thank you…!”

From this point out, I’m playing a scene I wrote in advance. Dialog by Quinn. Teary emotions by Jasper the Hypnotist. My guilt is entirely forgotten.

I lay a trembling hand on Tricia’s forearm. “Oh my God,” I burble, “you saved it, you saved the most important one! Thank you, thank you!”

“Sure,” Tricia says, desperate to calm me.

“No, you don’t understand,” I wail. “Those were my family’s photos, all we had! But this…” I hold up the one rescued photo, of a stern-looking old woman in a black dress. “…this is Grandmama. The only picture left. The only picture I have of her…!” I burst out into tears once more.

“Oh my God,” Tricia says, stunned.

In truth, the photos were old prints from a Last Will and Testament case from last year. I have no idea who the people in these photos are. I just pulled that Grandmama thing out of my ass.

She and I make a lame attempt to recover even one more photo, but its too late. The rest of the prints are now whisking down Sixth Avenue.

“I’m so sorry,” Tricia tells me for the millionth time.

“You’re such a good person,” I mumble. “Please, can I buy you dinner? Please? As a thank you.”

“Oh… oh, no,” says Tricia, blushing.

“No,” I state firmly. “You’ve save Grandmama’s picture. It’s the least I can do.”

Tricia tries to escape again. “No, really…”

I fix her with a determined smile. “Grandmama would insist.”

“Well…” the yoga chick says, her resistance melting, “…for Grandmama, then…”

I smile thankfully. “I’m Roberta,” I lie.

“Hey, Roberta, I’m Tricia. Pleased to meet you.”

Phase One complete!

*** *** ***

Tricia and I duck into O'Sullivan’s, a small Irish pub that I know nearby. I can feel Jasper’s hypnosis wearing off, so I’ll have to act quickly. Tricia and I claim a small booth in the back. We pile our coats on the seats across from us, then sit side-by-side.

“You mind if I order a drink?” I sniffle, still playing emotionally distraught.

Tricia gives me a forgiving smile. “Go for it,” she says.

I nod gratefully, then gesture to the waitress. “A Poitin,” I order, deliberately picking the strongest spirit on the menu. I then glance at Tricia. “You’re not going to let me drink alone, are you?”

“Oh,” Tricia murmurs, blushing. “I’m trying to watch my figure…”

“Giiiiiiiiiiiiiirlfriend!” I wail. “I’m in serious need here!” Before Tricia can object, I tell the waitress, “Make that **_two_** Poitins. And the appetizer platter.”

“Well…” says the yoga instructor, then grins and shrugs. “What the hell. A little drink might be fun.”

Phase Two complete.

*** *** ***

I spend about twenty minutes making small talk as Tricia and I sip our drinks and nibble on potato bites and Irish nachos. I’m used to drinking Poitins, so I know to pace myself. Tricia, alas, has no such previous experience.

After we gossip about New York celebrities, finding a good shoe store, and exchange a little of our histories, I judge that its time to proceed to Phase Three. Tricia is no longer as uptight. The Poitin is going to work on her. She’s slouching in her seat a little, and her eyes are becoming slightly unfocused.

I wait for a lull in our conversation, then pick up the photo of “Grandmama.” I sigh, and will Jasper’s hypnosis to make me a little sad once again. I don’t know if its working, but I do sense the mood at the table darken.

“Ohhhh, Grandmama,” I murmur. “You’d be so disappointed in how I turned out.”

Tricia hesitates, uncertain how to respond.

“Two more Poitins, please?” I yell to the waitress, although I have yet to finish my drink. Tricia has already polished off hers.

“Your Grandmama seems like a really cool lady,” the young yoga instructor offers lamely. She’s trying to console me. Good.

“She was stern,” I mumble, making up more bullshit. “She wouldn’t be too happy if she could see me now.”

The waitress materializes, sets down our drinks without expression, then vanishes. I make a point to slide one of the Poitins before Tricia before raising my own glass.

“Here’s to you, Grandmama,” I say. Tricia quickly joins the toast, then downs a big swig.

Okay, now its time to play my final card. “Ohhhhhh God,” I moan, deliberately turning the photo upside-down and shoving it away.

Tricia, not knowing what to do, pats my shoulder reassuringly.

“Can I confide in you?” I ask suddenly.

“Oh, of course!”

I make a meager gesture with my hands. I’m about to serve up my biggest whopper of the evening. “All my friends think I’m this totally together chick,” I mutter. “But… Goddamnit… my life is flying apart. I’m sticking with a slimeball boyfriend who is obviously cheating on me. My alcoholic mother is perpetually broke, mooching money from me. My boss gropes my ass at work, then threatens to fire me if I resist him…” I cough out one last sob. “My life sucks.”

All of this is absolute horseshit. I’m actually impressed with my ability to shovel out this fiction, and make it sound convincing! Perhaps Jasper’s hypnosis is still helping me?

“Oh my God, Roberta,” Tricia whispered, genuinely moved. “You poor thing…”

“That’s okay,” I sniff, then make a show of blowing my nose on a paper napkin.

“In class, you always seemed like this… cool, got-it-together chick,” the yoga instructor tells me.

“Yeah, well,” I snuffle, “this is what a train wreck looks like, kid.” I gesture at her. “I’m sure with your Hemmency’s employee package and Hemmency’s body, well… You must have it made.” I put on my saddest face and stare at my shoes. “Jesus, I envy you.”

If my scheme is to work, the moment is now.

Tricia looks down at her manicured nails, then at me. “Don’t feel bad,” she whispers. “My life’s pretty shitty, too.”

“No, get out,” I say, without much enthusiasm.

“S’riously,” the younger girl insists, slurring a little. “Can I tell you s’mething?”

I hold my breath.

“Its kinda bad,” Tricia admits. “You’ll think I’m a horrible person.”

“I couldn’t ever think that,” I assure her.

My companion takes another draw of Poitin. “I had an affair,” she whispers in an excited stage voice. “With a **_married_** man!”

“Fuck me,” I murmur. I raise my glass. “Cheers to that.”

Tricia empties her glass, and doesn’t notice that I still have not finished my first Poitin.

“I met him in my class,” the buzzed girl continues. “He’s, like, old. Fifty or sixty or s’mething. Whatever. But he was charming… and rich.” She giggles. “So rich!”

I slide my second Poitin before her. “Do tell.”

“He has, like, twenty penthouse apartments across the city,” brags Tricia. “He let me use one for a couple weeks. It was nice. I actually had my own servants.” She grins naughtily.

I make sure I look impressed. “Damn, girl. So what happened?”

Tricia’s smile fades. “He… he was demanding in bed.”

“Aren’t they all?” I snort, extracting another Irish nacho.

“No, no you don’t get it,” says Tricia. “Randy… like, he has this master/slave fetish. He wanted me to be all like, ‘ _Yes, master_ ,’ and ‘ _I obey, master,_ ’ and ‘ _I worship your cock, master._ ’ Once, he wanted me to be waiting for him, in bed. With like, nothing on but a leather slave collar.” She shakes her wobbling head. “So gross.”

I nod in agreement. I’ll admit that I find Randall Oakwater attractive, but there’s no amount of money in the world that will make me say shit like ‘ _Yes master._ ’ Nooooooooo way.

“So you broke it off,” I prod.

Tricia sips more Poitin. “Yeah,” she rasps. “Well, I told him I wasn’t into his slave fantasy. And you know what? He flew into a rage.”

My eyes widen. “He **_beat_** you?”

“No, no,” the yoga chick says quickly. “But he verbally abuses you if he doesn’t get what he wants. Says all kinds of bad shit about you.”

“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “Well, those are just words.”

“You don’t get it, Roberta,” Tricia tells me. “Randy… he’s a possessive motherfucker.” She lowers her voice in an imitation of Mr. Oakwater. “ _’I own you, Tricia, you miserable little cunt! I own your sorry pussy and I’ll fucking do whatever I want with you. Skank!’_ ”

I’m taken aback. “Goddamn.”

Tricia nods, knowingly. “He’d call me up, drunk, ranting that he wanted me as his slave. And he called for me at Hemmency’s a few times. Luckily, the management knows how to handle him. But for a while there, I really thought he was hellbent on destroying my life.”

Her eyes grow haunted. “There were a few days there when I thought Randy might be the Devil. Like, actually be Satan, you know?”

I feel like I’ve heard someone else say that.

Tricia tosses a wary hand, then smirks. “I got him back, though. Man, did I ever!”

I feel a chill go down my spine. “What did you do?”

In a conspiratorial tone, Tricia tells me, “Well, the last time I agreed to see the fucker, he made me come over to his house. Like, where he and his wife actually live. She was out shopping or s’mething, and he wanted to do me in their bed. Like, fucking me in his wife’s bed was some sick thing of his.” She gags.

I’m hanging on her every word. “Yeah?”

Looking chagrined, Tricia confesses, “So yes, I let him plow me. Ugh. I so regret it, because of course, he wanted to hump with me saying ‘ _Oh Master, you’re so hot, Master, I love your cock, Master…_ ’ You get it. He was pulling my hair and spanking me. I hated it.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper, momentarily forgetting my mission.

Tricia waves another dismissive hand as she polishes off her third Poitin. “Well, in his bedroom, there’s his wife’s jewelry table, right?”

I see where this is going. “ ** _No!_** ”

“Oh, fucking yes,” Tricia declares. “So, when he’s finished, he turns on football, but falls asleep in the bed. I hop up, and there, right there on the jewelry table, is this ring that he once told me belonged to his mother. He gave it to his wife when they got married. Or s’mething. She fucking hates that ring, thinks its ugly as horse shit. She never wants to wear it. But he insists that she keep it.”

I’m in awe. “You stole her ring?”

Tricia cracks a nasty smile. “Fuck yeah,” she admits gleefully. “Just to spite him.”

She laughs, a sure sign that she’s drunker than she knows.

“He… he didn’t realize that you…?”

“Naw,” the yoga instructor says. “I read in the gossip page that he thinks his wife scammed it for the insurance, or something. Rich people do that.”

Her smile fades. “You know, what I did, it wasn’t right. _> hic<_ I’m not proud. When a little more time rolls by, I’ll mail it back to him anon… anoni… anonynon… You know, without a return address.”

“You didn’t sell it?” I have to know. “You still have the ring?”

Tricia flips me off, and then laughs again. Stunned, I realize: there’s an ornate ring of gold and silver about her middle finger.

*** *** ***

The next morning, I arrive at the firm and make a beeline for the Records Department. I pull the Oakwater file once more. This time, I request a blowup of every surveillance photo we have of Tricia Buxley’s hand. Sure enough, in three of the pictures, the stolen ring is clearly visible.

Gotcha.

I print out the evidence, retreat to my office, and write up a juicy lawsuit accusing the yoga instructor of theft, theft of a precious Oakwater family heirloom! I even Google search to find that gossip column Tricia mentioned, the one where Mrs. Oakwater reported the ring as stolen. I’m insanely lucky when a picture of the ring is included in the article.

Wow, look at that. When you compare photos, there’s **_no doubt_** that Tricia robbed Randall Oakwater. No doubt.

I admire my handiwork. Tricia Buxley is fucking dead.

I should send the completed paperwork straight to my supervisor, who is now Damon Witt. He would review it, file it in the firm’s archive, then pass it along to the client. Standard procedure.

A dark thought occurs. What if Mr. Witt wants to screw me?

What if Mr. Witt is a climber, like Fanny Mae Tuberbanks? He’d take my name off the lawsuit, attach his own, and then Mr. Oakwater will think Witt the Witless is the golden boy. I have no reason to think that Mr. Witt would do that, but…

Uh-uh. I’m not risking losing this lawsuit. No fucking way. Impressing Mr. Oakwater could be my ticket to big things.

I rummage through my emails, and find the contact information of Jack Mortimer, Mr. Oakwater’s assistant. With little hesitation, I type up a brief cover letter, attach my lawsuit, and click SEND.

*** *** ***


	5. Just Rewards

There’s about an hour before lunch. Now that my Tricia Buxley lawsuit is typed up, I officially have nothing to do. I idle away the time by surfing the ‘net, catching up on celebrity gossip. Beyoncé and Jay Z were seen fighting in Beverly Hills? Whaaaaaaaaat? Are they breaking up? Because for you, Jay Baby, I’m available.

I hear a small commotion outside my windowless office. Excited voices are approaching from down the hallway. Weird, I think I hear Mr. Witt. He never comes down to my floor. Why-

My office door is pushed wide open, and I gape as Randall Oakwater fills the doorframe. He gazes down at me with a mixture of greed and pride. Over his round shoulders, I can see Mr. Witt and half the partners, all looking anxious.

My jaw has come unhinged. I minimize my computer screen, leap to my feet, and try to check my hair without being too obvious.

“There she is!” Mr. Oakwater declares, pointing at me as if he’s found me in a police lineup. He strides forward, grabbing my hand and pumping it with enthusiasm. “This girl, she’s **_my kind_** of lawyer!”

“Mr. Oakwater, Mr. Oakwater!” the partners all chorus, desperate to asset some kind of control.

“No, no, you fucking pricks don’t fucking get it,” Mr. Oakwater snarls. “This broad figured out what you numbskulls never, ever did. You wanna win cases? **_You do what you gotta do._** You go the distance. You flatten anything in your way.” He looks at me with pride. “You celebrate that killer instinct.”

“Mr. Oakwater,” says Mr. Witt, looking miserable, “we’re always grateful to see you, sir, but… your case against Miss Buxley still isn’t…”

In a flash, I realize what’s happened: Upon getting my write-up, Jack Mortimer passed it on to his boss. Mr. Oakwater read it, loved it, and came straight here. The firm’s partners have no idea any of this transpired. I’ve cut them out of the loop.

Shit, that’s a **_huge_** office no-no. Time to mitigate the damage, if possible.

“Actually, Mr. Witt,” I say quickly, holding up one hand, “if you remember, our research determined that Miss Buxley stole jewelry from Mr. Oakwater. I merely finalized that paperwork…?”

I bulge my eyes at Mr. Witt, just a little, willing him to read between the lines.

“Oh,” Mr. Witt mumbles. “Oh. Oh, right. Yes, yes, of course.”

Mr. Oakwater’s dark glance shoots between Mr. Witt and me. He isn’t fooled. But he doesn’t care, either.

“ ** _This_** is what I want all my lawyers to be,” the billionaire declares, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You wusses should be learning from **_her_**. You know, you stupid shits are lucky I happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to drop by.”

The partners mutter amongst themselves. Under these circumstances, they don’t know how to properly grovel.

“Get the fucking lawsuit filed,” Mr. Oakwater orders me. “Don’t go to civil court. Charge the skank in criminal court.”

My throat goes dry. “You want… to put Miss Buxley in jail?” I croak.

“Fuck yeah,” snarls Mr. Oakwater. “Make it happen.”

Okay, two things here…

One, I never thought I’d be sending Tricia to the slammer! I mean, she is guilty of theft, and that is a felony… but Goddamn! Mr. Oakwater **_wants_** to be cruel. Jesus.

Two, I can’t be the representing council here. As I told you earlier, Tricia knows my face. She thinks my name is Roberta. The gig would be up if she saw me in court.

“I’d recommend we assign a different litigator,” I say coolly, as if I’m merely following protocol. And not, you know, covering my ass.

Mr. Oakwater scrutinizes my face. He seems… displeased? Disappointed? Perturbed?

No, I think… I think he’s putting two and two together. He seems to understand.

“…okay,” he finally rumbles. “Fine. Fine, then **_you_** supervise the case. Pick who you need in the firm. Make it happen.”

The partners gasp.

“Mr. Oakwater,” Mr. Witt cringes, “uh, Miss McKinnon here isn’t a supervisor. She doesn’t have the experience-“

“ ** _Fuck that!_** ” bellows Mr. Oakwater, outraged to have been challenged. “She’s a fucking supervisor now. I say so.” To me, he growls, “Take anyone you want from the firm. **_You’re_** in charge. Don’t let these fucking pussies tell ya otherwise. Get me?”

I’m blown away. “Yessir.”

Mr. Oakwater nods, pleased. His dark eyes sweep me, and I feel his imagination explore my body. He’s picturing me naked. He’s fantasizing about the two of us getting it on.

There’s a tortured minute of silence as the Great Client appraises me. I remain rooted in place. Outside my office, the partners, the secretaries, the paralegals, the research assistants, the interns, hell, even the food delivery guy all remain frozen, wondering what Mr. Oakwater will do next.

Mr. Oakwater suddenly frowns. “Everyone, give me ‘n Quinn a minute,” he demands, and pushes my office door shut before anyone else can object. I see Mr. Witt’s pale face gawking at me seconds before the door closes.

Taking his time, Mr. Oakwater moves to stand directly before me, coming almost toe-to-toe. I can’t read his expression. His thin mouth is shut, but he’s breathing heavily through his nose, like a wild animal in heat. He places both meaty hands on my shoulders. And I stare up at him, mesmerized by his take-charge charisma.

“You’re ballsy,” Mr. Oakwater rumbles, fingering my shoulderblades. “I like that.”

“Yessir,” is all I offer.

“Aw, don’t call me that,” he grins, in an aw-shucks way. “You ‘n me, we could be friends.”

Oh, Lord. Is he about to kiss me?

A billion calculations flash through my head: First, Mr. Oakwater is coming onto me. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. He stares at my boobs and that smile he’s wearing tells me all I need to know.

And being Mr. Oakwater’s “friend” could have perks. Like… I might become his golden girl. After one quick blow job, I could rise up and become his favorite lawyer. Five minutes of routine sexual activity in exchange for a stellar career path? That doesn’t sound so bad.

And although I’m just twenty-six, I’ve already seen how the world works. You think women lawyers make the same as men for equal work? Not even close. Please! I’ve done the math, and by the time I’m ready to have kids, I’ll be making three-quarters of what my lazy male counterparts will be pulling down.

Yes, the feminist in me is screaming about the unfairness of the universe right now, but Goddamnit… I have to deal with the world as I find it. Unfair is irrelevant. There is no justice.

So I put both of my hands on Mr. Oakwater’s belly, and lean a little close. “Friends?” I murmur. “I’d like that.”

He grins, then moves in to kiss me.

**_Gak!_ **

Oh man, he’s a **_terrible_** kisser! His lips are powerful and very wet, and they slobber over my mouth like you wouldn’t believe! This is like Frenching a cow. As much as I want to enjoy this, this is not a sexy kiss.

And there’s… this weird smell about Mr. Oakwater, too. Not a stink, not a musk, but… something. Something that creeps me out, just a little. This is sort of like kissing my Uncle Marty.

Mr. Oakwater grunts with pleasure. He pulls me closer.

I have a panic reaction. “Oh gosh,” I say, stepping away. “I just forgot… I, um, I have a meeting. Another client meeting. I’m sorry, I…”

“Oh,” Mr. Oakwater replies, disappointed.

Shit. Did I just burn down my golden bridge?

“But,” I say quickly, “I do want to be your friend, sir. Really! Can we…” My mind races. “Can we raincheck? Maybe until tonight?”

Fuck, that was the **_best_** I could come up with?

Mr. Oakwater frowns, but looks at my boobs again. “Yeah, sure,” he grumbles. “Sure. Tonight, at, ah… 44 Reade St., top floor. Sound good?”

I smile graciously. “What time?”

*** *** ***

Outside, I smoke my third cigarette, stressing like you wouldn’t believe. I feel like I’ve hit this… this nexus in my life.

On one hand, there’s the opportunity offered by Mr. Oakwater. **_Become the next Mistress of Oakwater and favorite lawyer._** The downside: I’ll have to crush Tricia Buxley. And betray John. The upside: With Mr. Oakwater’s patronage, I could skyrocket my career. The flipside: I don’t know if I find Mr. Oakwater all that physically attractive.

Or I could walk away. **_Stay on the straight and narrow._** Keep my shitty associate job, maybe work my ass off for the next twenty years to make junior partner. Marry John, have three kids in the Long Island suburbs. Get fat. Learn to drive a minivan and go to soccer games and dreadful school plays and church tag sales. Become my mom. Never become important.

 _…Never become important…_ Well, when I put things **_that_** way, the choice is obvious: Am I gonna be a climber or a sitter?

I throw down my half-consumed cigarette, then crush it under my heel. I’ve made my decision.

*** *** ***

Its 1:17 PM. I return to my shoebox office, shut the door, then pull out my phone. I start making calls.

I’ve already decided: I’ll have Jasper hypnotize me again. All the geek has to do is mesmerize me to find Mr. Oakwater super hot. Remember when I got hypno’ed in AC? The hypnotist chick made me think that some chubby guy was a major stud. I was totally brainwashed to go gaga for that overweight loser. I just need Jasper to do that to me, just for a few hours this evening.

But the first thing I do is call my girlfriend Morgan. I need her there to watch Jasper like a hawk while I’m under hypnosis. She whines and complains that she has more important things to do, but _please!_ She totally doesn’t. I browbeat her a little, and then in exchange, I promise to come and listen to her boyfriend’s awful band this Friday night. She agrees.

Next, I phone up Jasper. The geek is at his office, but when I explain I need another hypnosession STAT, he quickly goes into bargaining mode. “ _I wanna suck on your tits this time,_ ” he presses me. “ _Twenty minutes?_ ”

We agree to fifteen minutes, I’m topless, I don’t have to kiss him this time. He never even asks what I want to get hypnotized for! What a pervert.

To make my date with Mr. Oakwater for this evening, I have to drop everything **_now_** and sprint to Jasper’s office. Ugh, just my luck.

*** *** ***

Like me, Jasper works in Midtown. I leave my office, grab a cab, and soon am in the lobby of his company’s building at 1182 Lexington Ave. I actually don’t know what Jasper does, nor do I care. All I care about now is his ability to entrance my mind.

On the elevator ride up to Jasper’s floor, I check my phone again. Morgan, the unreliable dork, can’t make it! Goddamnit. I knew she’d flake.

Well, that tears it. There’s just no time to find a new hypnotist. I just have to risk that I can trust Jasper. I’m not sure Morgan was the best hypnosis watchdog, anyhow.

*** *** ***

I meet Jasper in the reception area of his company. “Come on back,” he smiles, then leads me through a sprawling room filled with people in cubicles.

“My firm does corporate insurance,” Jasper explains to me as we walk. “I’m a manager here. We appraise other major corporations, estimate their liability, and then provide-“

“Okay, okay,” I snap, already bored. “Where’re we doing this?”

Jasper guides me into his office, which is surprisingly large for someone so young. Typical corporate office. There’s absolutely no décor which has any soul whatsoever. I notice that Jasper has already set up a chair in the center of the room, for me to get hypnotized in, I guess.

“No calls, not even from my wife,” Jasper instructs a secretary, then shuts the door. He and I are completely alone.

“Allllllrighty,” the geek exclaims. “…shall we?”

*** *** ***

I hold up my end of the agreement. I take off my blouse and bra, sit on the edge of the geek’s desk, and let him go to town. You know, I think that Jasper sucking on my chest is actually better than Jasper kissing my lips. He is actually quite gentle. I mean, I don’t find his mouth on my breasts to be terribly erotic, but all I have to do is sit here and absently fondle his hair. That’s easy.

When the timer on my phone goes off (I shaved off three minutes), I put my bra and blouse back on, then sit in the hypnosis chair.

“Okay, so what do you need this time?” Jasper asks me.

I give him only the basics: I just need to find Mr. Oakwater attractive.

Jasper’s brow wrinkles, and I can tell he’s wondering what John (you know, my fiancée) would make of this.

“Can you do it, or not?” I ask coolly.

He shrugs. “I can do it. Close your eyes, Quinn…”

“Oh, wait,” I interrupt. I take out my iPhone, fire up the tape recorder app, then confirm that it is recording. “Okay,” I say as I lay the phone down on the desk. “I’m ready.”

“Close your eyes, Quinn,” Jasper says again. “Breathe **_deeply_** , and allow yourself to **_relax_** …”

*** *** ***

“…and awaken!”

I grunt a little, willing my eyes to open. Wow, I feel so good, like every muscle I have was treated to an hour-long massage.

Jasper steps back, looking tired. “You did well,” he tells me.

Really? I don’t remember a thing.

I shrug, then reach for my phone on the desk.

To my surprise, the phone isn’t there. I blink.

Waitaminute… I thought I set the phone to record our session? You know, just in case Jasper decided to put some perverted commands into his patter. I clearly remember turning on the recorder app… and…

“Forget!” Jasper says to me, snapping his fingers near my ears.

Oh, wait. No. No, I’m mistaken. True, I initially thought about recording everything. But you know what? I totally trust Jasper. He’s my friend. I never used the phone at all. See? Its here in my purse, where it was the whole time.

I shake my head, and all doubts vanish from my mind.

*** *** ***

John’s still in London. I have the apartment to myself as I get ready for this evening.

I only spent an hour and a half. I shower, making sure to use the $99 body gel from Macy’s Fifth Avenue. While the bathroom is still steamy, I reshave everything that generates hair from my neck on down. Nice! Then I slip into the world’s most obscene party dress, which is basically a tiny red skirt and half of a front to cover my chest. But I’m showing off a lot of sideboob, a lot of back, and a lot of leg. I am not wearing a bra. I am not wearing panties.

As I turn about and inspect myself in the bedroom body mirror, I’m actually grateful for all those yoga classes. I look gooooooooood.

So I’ll have to wear my long raincoat so I don’t get harassed in the streets. Oh well. My highest black heels complete the wardrobe. I’ve also spent far too much time arranging the hair and the makeup. When the need arises, I am a fucking genius with makeup. I’m a Rembrandt when it comes to my face and the Sephora product line.

I look sexy and beautiful. **_Rawwwr!_**

*** *** ***

44 Reade St is on the edge of Tribeca, which is one of the poshest neighborhoods in New York City. I glance at my watch; its twenty to nine PM. I’m early, for once.

I feel confident. Soon, I’ll roll in the hay with Mr. Oakwater, give him the Orgasm of the Year, then allow him to pillow talk. He’ll babble on about… whatever… as we lie in bed, naked together. That’s when men are at their most vulnerable. Their brains are chemically sedated, endorphins popping away in the afterglow of sex. I’ll listen, offer a sympathetic ear, maybe gently stroke his chest with my fingertips. He’ll fall head-over-heels for me. And then, I can ask for career help at the firm.

You know, I’m **_proud_** of myself. When life offered me an opportunity, what did I do? I grabbed it and held on, with both hands. Most women would have flinched. Not me. I’m a climber.

 ** _I’m a climber._** That’s why I’ll succeed.

I breeze into 44 Reade St and give my name to the doorman.

“Go on up, Miss McKinnon,” he says warmly. “Mr. Oakwater is expecting you.”

*** *** ***

The top floor is one massive penthouse… **_WOW_**. I’ve never been in a penthouse before.

When you step off the elevator, there’s a private sitting area, with fresh-cut flowers, a hand basin, and lots of original art on the walls. From there, you pass through the suite’s entrance, and find yourself in an expansive living room. One entire wall is a tank of colorful, tropical fish. The opposite wall is a panoramic view of Manhattan skyscrapers and the black East River beyond. There are custom chairs and sofas, each of them worth twenty times my 401K.

As I’m gaping about in all directions, across the room two double doors open. “Hey now,” rumbles Mr. Oakwater, obviously glad to see me. He’s dressed in a light blue button-down shirt, tucked into his gray slacks. His sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up a little. I note his Italian shoes.

“Hey,” I flirt.

Then, taking my time, I slip my overcoat off my bare shoulders. I unveil the dress – and myself – slowly, so slowly.

“Mmm,” says Mr. Oakwater in appreciation when the coat is gone. “Turn around, doll. Lemme see you.”

I revolve like a Lazy Susan, taking the tiniest of steps.

“Nice,” smirks the billionaire. He gestures. “Toss yer coat anywhere. You want a drink?”

Yeah, I think a little inebriation would be a good idea right about now. What’s something manly I could request, something that would impress Mr. Macho here?

“Scotch, neat,” I reply.

Mr. Oakwater nods. He approves.

*** *** ***

After we make a little small talk over drinks, Mr. Oakwater falls silent. He openly looks at my body, not bothering to hide the smutty thoughts he’s thinking.

“Come with me,” he rasps, setting his glass on a coffee table.

Its time. I tap my wrist, three times. I kinda feel like Dorothy trying to return to Kansas when I do this. But this is the signal that will trigger Jasper’s hypnotic suggestions.

And right on cue, my thoughts blur a little. I’m amazed to see that… hey, Mr. Oakwater is actually kind of hot! No, really! Why didn’t I see this before? He’s got a square jaw, thick hair, trim waist, nice shoulders, round muscles in his arms and chest. His breath smells faintly of mint. Wow.

Mr. Oakwater the Dreamboat gestures, and now I am happily following him like a puppy. Look at his tight butt! Oooo, I want to grab it and smack it! I’m getting wet. When we have sex, I already know I’m gonna cum like a fire hydrant.

Moving with a sexy confidence, Mr. Oakwater leads me through the penthouse, heading for what is obviously his bedroom. As I glance around, I note the complete absence of any family photos, any books on the bookshelves, any knickknacks or personal items like car keys or magazines or eyeglasses or spare shoes. This apartment is not a place where people live. It’s a babe lair, a place Mr. Oakwater visits only when he wants to entertain a young lady for a few hours.

*** *** ***

Mr. Oakwater and I enter the bedroom, and he shuts the door. Strangely, he doesn’t dim the lights. Well, we’ll get to that. Do I take my dress off now, or…

“Its just like you said,” Mr. Oakwater comments… but the comment wasn’t directed at me. There’s someone else in the room!

I step back in surprise as Jasper rises from a chair and approaches me.

I’m startled. “Hey-“

“Quinn, **_CALM,_** ” Jasper tells me, passing a hand over my face.

Suddenly, the world changes. My mind tumbles into a peaceful sort of stupor, where I can’t think or react, but my emotions are somehow sedated. My arms drop to my side, and my feet become rooted to the floor. I can’t move… but I don’t want to, either.

I feel so chill… All I want to do is stand here. It feels nice. I would smile, but my face, like my mind, has gone blank. I’m in a trance.

“There,” Jasper says matter-of-factly. “Quinn here is one of the best subjects I’ve ever worked with.”

Mr. Oakwater makes a dismissive grunt. “Its ‘cause she’s a broad,” he says as if he can’t believe Jasper could be so dumb. “Broads are more easily hypnotized.”

Jasper looks like he’s about to argue, but thinks better of it. “Well, I’ll still need some time to work on her mind. But after tonight, she’ll be all yours.”

“Prove it,” Mr. Oakwater says, crossing his arms.

Jasper grins, then places a hand on my shoulder. “Quinn, in a moment, I’ll snap my fingers. You’ll awaken, remembering nothing. But if Mr. Oakwater commands you to do something, your mind will go blank, and you will discover that you must obey him. He is your master.”

I listen, completely unconcerned. I don’t think I’m hypnotized.

Jasper raises his hand…

*** *** ***

**_Snap!_ **

My eyelids blink a few times. Where am I?

I thought… Wait, I’m confused. I’m in Mr. Oakwater’s bedroom, and… Ah, to hell with it. I’m sure everything’s cool.

To my surprise, Jasper is here.

“Jasp,” I say in mild surprise. “You know Mr. Oakwater?” This is weird.

The geek grins, shrugs, then steps back.

Oooooookay. Well, the sooner I can get rid of him, the sooner I can get back to seducing-

“Hey doll,” Mr. Oakwater interrupts my thoughts. “Why doncha come over here and wax my weasel, eh?”

Its like my brain switches off. “Yes, master,” I hear myself say. Then, like a robot, I move to Mr. Oakwater, get on my knees, then reach for his zipper. I have to suck him.

“Whoa, okay, okay!” my master protests, but I can tell he’s pleased.

Suddenly, Jasper is at my side, pulling at my arm. “Quinn, stand up, won’t you?”

I’m so confused. I have to give Mr. Oakwater oral, but I have to obey Jasper at the same time. My mind is turning cartwheels. I allow Jasper to pull me onto my feet.

“ ** _SLEEP,_** ” he tells me, once more waving his hand before my eyes.

I tumble into a deep, relaxing blackness. My body goes limp as my eyes close. Jasper catches me just in time.

*** *** ***

“There, Mr. Oakwater,” I hear Jasper say pleasantly. “You see? I can program her to be yours.”

“Yeah,” says the billionaire, sounding impressed. “Yeah, you can.” He emits a cruel chuckle. “Kid, when you approached me earlier today, I thought you was smokin’ something. But she’s really, really under your control, huh?”

“Quinn is intelligent and highly imaginative,” Jasper says lightly, brushing my cheek with his hand. “She’s an ideal hypnotic subject. She won’t resist what her subconscious commands her to do.”

“How’d you trick her into hypnosis, anyways?”

“I got lucky,” Jasper admits. “The first time, she brought a girlfriend to watch me. But **_that_** bitch was dumb as a post, and I was able to hypnotize her, too. From there, I planted a few desires within Quinn’s mind to trust me, and… here we are.”

“Anyway,” the hypnotist says, “if you want her, Quinn will do whatever you want. And she’ll love it. My price for this incredibly modest service is fifty thousand for the initial brainwashing. Then I’ll need to rehypnotize her at least once a month to maintain your control. Ten thousand each for those sessions.”

“Twenty-five thou for now, five thou for each additional session,” growled Mr. Oakwater. “And she better do all you promised. You hear?”

Jasper sounds like he wants to haggle, but he thinks better of his situation. “Done,” he says plainly.

*** *** ***

It is later in the evening.

The lights are dimmed. Mr. Oakwater and I are alone in the bedroom, truly alone. Oh, Jasper was here earlier, and he spoke some stuff to me… but I can’t remember what he said… It doesn’t matter.

What matters now is Mr. Oakwater. As I shed my scrap of a cocktail dress, I eye the big man hungrily. Oh, he is hot! Normally, I don’t like older men, but Mr. Oakwater is like Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, and Ben Affleck all got melded together into a middle-aged superhunk. I fucking love this man.

I want his cock.

As my dress falls away, I feel the room air on every inch of my naked skin. Mr. Oakwater steps forward, putting grateful hands on my breasts. He kisses me.

Oh, I swoon! He’s **_such_** a good kisser. So amazing…!

We greedily smooch for maybe three minutes. God, even his **_lips_** taste sexy! Like… honey and wine. I’m so into this man.

Suddenly, Mr. Oakwater breaks the kiss and his hand whips around to smack me on the ass. “Turn around,” he growls. “Grab the bed.”

“Yes, master,” I breathe.

Obediently, I pivot around, and find myself facing Mr. Oakwater’s four-poster bed. He shoves me roughly while gripping my left hip with one hand. I throw out my hands and grip the sheets and the mattress. Jesus, the sheets are blood red satin! They must have cost four figures, easy.

Although he’s still clutching me by the hip, I hear Mr. Oakwater’s zipper descend. He shuffles around a bit, and then my legs are forced apart by his feet. I don’t resist.

“You’re gonna yell out when I fuck you, you hear me, **_slave?_** ” he snarls.

Overcome with my own lust, I barely respond, “Yes, master!”

And then, he’s fucking me. Oh, he’s fucking me, so hard, so hard, so hard! He has no sense of foreplay, of teasing me. He just inserts his cock tip and then floors the petal. I gasp and squeal and moan and then, yes, yell out. “OHHH GODDD!!! Fuck me hard, master!”

“You like that?” he barely grunts, still plowing me at the speed of light.

I swear, my teeth are going to rattle out of my skull. “ ** _Yes!_** ” I scream. “ ** _Harder, master, harder! Make me your slave forever!_** ”

He shouts, a wordless cry. Then he smacks my ass, again hard.

And then, we both cum at the same time.

*** *** ***


	6. Epilogue

**_Two years later…_ **

“Miss McKinnon?” Angie Darrows, my personal secretary is peeping into my office.

I don’t bother to look up from the printed brief in my hands.

“Your, um, lunch date is here.”

Annoyed, I glare at Angie. “Lunch date? What lunch date?”

But then the office door swings open wider, revealing my dad. He smiles and waves at me.

Instantly, I remember: **_Oh, yeah!_** Today is lunch with Dad! My bad mood evaporates.

“Dad!” I exclaim, dropping the brief onto my coffee table and striding forward.

“Honey Bear!” he smiles back, using the pet name I can’t stand.

We hug. Its really good to see him. Angie wisely closes the door and retreats back to her desk.

“So…” Dad exclaims, looking around. “This is the new office, huh? You said you had the corner view, but… yowee!”

I blush a bit at my dad’s hopelessly outdated slang.

The newly-renovated office is nice, though, I’ll admit that. 500 square feet, which includes my executive desk, private conference table, media center, and a little exercise nook that I don’t use. There’s also an ego wall, with framed pictures of me and my famous clients, plus the magazines covers featuring me.

My dad walks up to my favorite: last November’s issue of Time Out New York. That’s the one where I’m posing behind a giant-sized globe, like I’m Napoleon, plotting the conquest of the world. The screaming headline says it all:

**_LEGAL ROCK STAR_ **

**_At 28, Quinn McKinnon is already the youngest senior manager of a major Manhattan law firm. Can she position it for the Twenty-First Century?_ **

“They never let you smile in these pictures,” Dad comments, gesturing to all the magazines.

I grin, but let the comment pass. Women lawyers can’t smile in mainstream publications. If we smile, we’re seen as mothers, wives, pushovers. If we wear a neutral expression, we’re considered serious. I want to be seen as cutthroat.

Jeez, that magazine came out… over a year ago? So much has happened since then.

The Tricia Buxley case went my way, of course. Mr. Oakwater tipped off his friends in the NYPD, poor Tricia was arrested, and we raked her over the coals for petty theft. The judge was ready to send her away for five years.

But Tricia threw herself on the mercy of the court, begging for her life, begging like a worm. And Mr. Oakwater, already incensed about some other business rival, decided he’d lost interest in punishing her. Tricia got off with a lot of community service and a severe black mark on her permanent record. I hear she’s now teaching senior citizen yoga at the Happy Haven Retirement Home, off Route 87 in Cleveland.

Whatevs. Mr. Oakwater put me on his next case, a lawsuit targeting the spoiled teenage daughter of a politician he despised. I did the undercover thing again, got my dirt, and we took that bitch and her daddy down, too.

As I drew blood for Mr. Oakwater, he assumed control of the firm, then pushed out the senior partners, one-by-one. I don’t know why we call this place Baker, Baker, Travis, Witt, and Locklin anymore; Baker, Baker, Travis, Witt, and Locklin haven’t worked here in months. Mr. Oakwater put **_me_** in charge.

And we’ve been slaughtering anyone who dares cross him ever since.

“You know where you want to go for lunch?” I say brightly to Dad, just to change the conversation. “My treat.”

But Dad doesn’t answer. He’s looking around my office, still in a daze. “Your mother and I always knew you’d go far, Honey Bear,” he murmurs. “But **_this_** … This is beyond our wildest hopes.”

I stop and look at my poor dad. His posture has slumped over the years. His hands tremble a little, and he bites his lip a lot. Everything about the dude is meager. I love my dad, but he’s lived a simple life, never really reached for big goals, never really risked anything. In a world of climbers and sitters, he’s definitely a sitter.

*** *** ***

When my dad is too meek to suggest the executive steakhouse that I know he craves, I take the decision out of his hands. Angie makes a last-minute reservation for two, and then Dad and I are off.

When we arrive, the maître d recognizes me, and escorts us through the restaurant. My dad’s eyes widen when we are led into a private dining room in the back.

“Oh,” he quails, “Honey Bear, I don’t need all this-“

“Dad!” I chide him. “This is my treat, remember? Enjoy.”

“Oh, my word,” he frets, scanning the menu. “Quinny, the baked potato alone is **_twenty-eight dollars!_** Why-“

“We’ll have two Kobe Beef slices, steamed potatoes, and broccoli rabe,” I tell the waiter. “And two glasses of Robert Mondavi Cabernet. Charge to the firm’s account.”

“Of course, Miss McKinnon,” the waiter murmurs, and then is gone.

Dad looks afraid to sit down in the leather-upholstered chair.

“Dad!” I laugh. “Would you relax? This is already paid for!”

*** *** ***

It takes a little coaxing, but finally I get my dad to unclench. And when the waiter returns with hot rolls and butter, he livens up. Dad loves fresh-baked bread. Soon, he’s cracking his corny jokes and I’m bearing his attempts to drag me down Memory Lane.

“You know who really would have loved this place?” Dad asks, admiring our dining room. “John. He always liked a good piece of steak.”

My smile drops instantly. John and I split up ages ago. I don’t like to be reminded of him.

Dad, as usual, doesn’t pick up on my ire. “Oh, speaking of John, did you hear about Douglass Alberta?” he asks me, reaching for his third roll.

I coax a polite smile and shake my head.

Dad’s expression darkens. “Doug was indicted,” he tells me.

“What? No!”

“Indeed,” my father says sadly. He tears open the bread, then picks up his butter knife. “Seems Doug was involved with, you know, Mafia types. He took a bribe years back, they helped him win his election, and then…” The Old Man grimaces. “He was in their pocket.”

I’m stunned. Little Dougie Alberta? I remember that fat little kid sucking popsicles in my backyard.

“He sold his soul,” Dad says ruefully. “Makes you think, really-“

My cell phone rings. I frown, but glance at the Caller ID: **_RO_**.

“Sorry, Dad, I’ve got to take this,” I say, already rising.

Dad waves an unconcerned hand. “I may start on the steaks without you,” he warns.

*** *** ***

I slip down the back corridor of the restaurant, popping into an uninhabited supply closet. I’d rather take this call in more glamorous surroundings, but I can’t risk letting RO go to voicemail. I squeeze in with the brooms and mops, shut the door, then pick up the line.

“Randall,” I say warmly.

“ _Hey, there, doll,_ ” my favorite client responds. “ _What’s shakin’?_ ”

“The suits against your ex-trainer are proceeding,” I report. “That problem with your film company in the Philippines? That’s about to go away, too. Also-“

“ _Whoa, whoa, whoa,_ ” Mr. Oakwater interrupts. “ _Doll, I know all that. Your office keeps Jackie Mortimer abreast of that stuff. That’s not why I called._ ”

“You do?” I asked, surprised. “Then why-“

“ _You now FEEL SO BLANK,_ ” says Mr. Oakwater.

In an instant, I feel my thoughts turn to mush. My body eases into full relaxation, although my legs still support me, and my hand holds the phone to my ear. My eyes unfocus, then close. I am in a powerful trance.

“ _Doll?_ ” Mr. Oakwater asks.

“Yes, master?” I respond robotically.

“ _You follow and obey,_ ” he tells me.

I have to repeat that. “I follow and obey.”

“ _Very good,_ ” Mr. Oakwater responds, pleased. “ _Now, listen and accept all my commands. You will continue to be so ruthless at work. Weakness is for pussies. You gonna crush all who oppose you._ ”

His commands sink deep into my mind. Later, I will believe they are my own ideas.

“ _Now, tonight…_ ” my master continues, “ _you will come over to the penthouse. You will wear only your overcoat ‘n those big stripper shoes I like so much, and nothin’ else. Get me? Once inside the penthouse, you will take off the coat, leave the shoes on. You will get on the bed, and wait for me._ ” A pause. “ _You understand?_ ”

I must respond. “I understand, master.”

“ _Good,_ ” Master says. “ _And now, you’re gonna forget and obey._ ”

The line clicks, then goes dead.

I blink, wondering what just happened. Something about…? Ah, I can’t remember. Oh well, it’ll come to me.

I extract myself from the closet, tuck my phone back into my purse, and smooth out my suitcoat. Then I walk back down the corridor, looking forward to lunch with my dad.

*** *** ***


End file.
